


(you are my) hiding place

by trustingno1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:33:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"How long d'you reckon we've got?" John asks, under his breath, pretending to fiddle with his sleeve cuff, as Sherlock jabs, impatiently, at the lift button.</p><p>"An hour, at most. Stairs," Sherlock replies, flinging open the stairwell door.</p><p>"I'll hide the condoms," John says, taking the stairs two at a time.</p><p>"Fake book's on the third shelf," Sherlock replies.</p><p>(Drug busts are a <i>pain</i> now that they're sleeping together).</p>
            </blockquote>





	(you are my) hiding place

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bit of silliness.

"Sherlock, if you're keeping anything from me," Lestrade warns, and Sherlock's face is the picture of innocence.

" _Absolutely_ not," he says, and Lestrade's unimpressed gaze travels to John, who quickly schools his face in a similar expression (and they're not fooling anyone, he knows, let alone a Scotland Yard DI, but Lestrade'd be hard pressed to _prove_ anything).

He dismisses them with a sigh and a wave of his hand (and a reproachful look at John that he ignores), and Sherlock all but bolts from the office, John at his heels.

"How long d'you reckon we've got?" John asks, under his breath, pretending to fiddle with his sleeve cuff, as Sherlock jabs, impatiently, at the lift button.

"An hour, at most. Stairs," Sherlock replies, flinging open the stairwell door.

"I'll hide the condoms," John says, taking the stairs two at a time.

"Fake book's on the third shelf," Sherlock replies.

"Dracula?" John checks.

"Obviously."

"Anything in the bathroom?" John tries to remember, and Sherlock grabs the handrail and comes to a stop. "Oi," John protests, almost smacking into his back, and he doesn't have to see Sherlock's face to know his eyes are moving side to side, just fractionally, as he pictures the bathroom.

"Doubtful," Sherlock says. "Unmake the bed," he adds, abruptly, continuing their descent.

"What?" John asks, after a beat, following him.

"Why would _I_ make my bed?" Sherlock asks, over his shoulder, genuinely confused.

"Right."

"And flip the pillows-"

"On my side, got it," John finishes, for him, as Sherlock pushes open the ground floor exit. "Seriously, Sherlock, when was the last time we emptied the bins?" and Sherlock doesn't bother answering.

"Your laptop's on the charger," Sherlock remembers; the charger in the downstairs bedroom, and John swears under his breath.

"I'll move it. Molly know you're coming?"

Sherlock pulls his phone out of his coat pocket. "I'll let her know now."

"Shit, what about my clothes?" John realizes.

Sherlock drums his fingers on the back of his phone as he thinks. "Grab anything plaid or light," he decides, "and take it back upstairs."

"Christ," John mutters, as Sherlock flags down a cab.

"The _clocks_ ," he says, with a gasp, as it pulls to a stop in front of them - doesn't expand. John makes a helpless gesture, and he can tell it's almost physically _paining_ Sherlock not to roll his eyes. "Turn the alarm downstairs off," he says, quickly, "and turn the one upstairs back on."

"No-one's going to notice something like _that_ ," John protests, because, yeah, he uses the alarm when he has a clinic shift, and Sherlock most decidedly does _not_ , but this is a drugs bust; a _fake_ drugs bust.

"I would," Sherlock says, and John gives him a rueful half smile, all, _well, yeah, but you're the world's only consulting detective, aren't you?_

Sherlock opens the back door of the cab and motions at John to take this one, and it's nothing but pure practicality; Bart's is about a mile closer than Baker Street, and John needs all the time he can get, but he still appreciates it.

"Ta," John says, as Sherlock shuts the door behind him, already looking for another cab. "Baker Street," he says, to the cabbie, "221B."

"John!" Sherlock says, suddenly, turning back to the cab.

"Wait!" John says, to the cabbie.

"The foot in the freezer-" Sherlock says, and John jerks his head in understanding.

"Can't take it out yet," he surmises.

"It needs another day or so," Sherlock says, a little plaintively, and John sighs.

"I'll pick up some frozen peas, hide it in the bag," he pauses, then, uncertainly, "That won't ruin anything, will it?" and Sherlock's eyes are narrowing, thoughtfully.

"Surely not," he says, slowly, as another cab pulls up behind them.

"I guess we'll find out," John says, deadpan, and Sherlock gives him a tiny smile.

"I shouldn't be long," Sherlock says, as a goodbye, and John watches him disappear into the other cab.

"Cheers," John says, settling back into his seat, and the cabbie's obviously trying to pretend he didn't hear a _word_ of that.

 

*

 

John's reading the paper when Lestrade knocks on the door.

"It's open, Greg," he calls, and Lestrade at least has the decency to look a little sheepish as he and his team file in.

"Look, John," he says, and John turns the page.

"It's fine," he says, without looking up, as someone opens the fridge. "Knock yourselves out." The cupboard under the sink, now. "Can I get you anything? Cuppa?" and he's being a bit of a dick, sure, but the tiny details of their strange domesticity are on display for what seems like half of Scotland Yard, and footsteps on the stairs save Lestrade having to reply.

"The husband doesn't have an alibi," Sherlock says, without preamble, as he enters the flat, unwinding his scarf from around his neck.

"What - yes he does," Lestrade protests, "He was out of the _country_." John's pretty sure he hears Anderson snort, somewhere in the kitchen.

Sherlock makes a noise of disagreement, soft and dismissive. "She was killed last week. He froze her. It slowed the decomposition."

"Seriously?" John asks, before he can catch himself. "That's ..."

"Are you _sure_?" Lestrade asks, and John's actually impressed at how well Sherlock holds his tongue.

"I'm always sure," he settles on.

"No you're not," John mutters. "You're just very, very good at bluffing."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth curls, in genuine amusement. "The two aren't mutually exclusive."

Lestrade clears his throat. "How do you know she was frozen?"

"You really don't want to know," John answers, for him, and Sherlock flops onto the sofa, opening John's laptop, clearly finished with the conversation.

Lestrade studies him for a long moment. "Alright," he says, raising his voice, "We're done here."

John's pretty sure Anderson mutters something about a complete and utter waste of _time_ as he brushes past, but they all ignore him.

When Lestrade's the only one left in their living room, Sherlock asks, without looking up from the computer, "Who had money on August?" and Lestrade clearly toys with the idea of feigning ignorance for a moment. "Don't play dumb," Sherlock cuts him off, "a lot of your officers can do it far more effortlessly."

"Donovan," he finally says, reluctantly, and Sherlock snorts.

"When are you down for?" John asks, and Sherlock smiles slightly, face ghostly pale in the reflection of the screen.

Lestrade scratches the back of his neck. "Look, this was - ages ago. We were just - taking the piss-" and John crosses his arms and waits. "December," he admits, and Sherlock glances up.

"Not even close," he murmurs.

"What?" Lestrade asks.

"What?" Sherlock echoes.

"We could do December," John interjects, thoughtfully, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock. "Leave some condoms in the bedside table."

"Move some of your clothes downstairs," Sherlock deadpans, setting the laptop aside, and John can _feel_ his laugh building.

"Nothing too over the top," John pretends to warn.

"Of course not," Sherlock says.

"Would that be enough?" John asks Lestrade.

"Uh. Should be," he says, a little warily. "Why-"

"We'd expect you to split your winnings," Sherlock interrupts, crossing his legs, touching his fingertips together, and Lestrade actually grins, at that.

"Fair enough." There's a pause, before he adds, a little tiredly, "Sherlock, you know you can't keep information from me."

"It wasn't _information_ ," Sherlock mutters, "It was a _theory_."

Lestrade pauses. "Right."

"And Molly would've noticed when she did the autopsy," John supplies, helpfully.

"Hopefully," Sherlock amends, entirely _un_ helpfully, and John glares at him.

"And the husband could be halfway around the world by then," Lestrade says, with more patience than Sherlock probably deserves.

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment. "That was an oversight on my part," he finally says, and it's as close to an apology as Lestrade's going to get, and they all know it.

"We'll bring him in tonight," Lestrade says, "I'll let you know how it goes," and Sherlock shrugs (and it's not that he doesn't _care_ , John knows, it's just that the procedural aspects of police work have always been frightfully dull to Sherlock Holmes). "John," Lestrade adds, with a jerk of his chin.

"Night, Greg," he says.

John drops onto the sofa next to Sherlock, with a groan, as Lestrade pulls the flat door shut behind him.

"You're not going to help me move everything back, are you," John doesn't really ask.

"No," Sherlock agrees, distractedly, and John snorts.

"You feel like soup tonight?" he asks, instead of replying, rolling his head on the back of the sofa to look at Sherlock.

"Soup?" Sherlock replies, a little dubiously.

"I've got to do something with all those bloody _peas_ ," and John's not sure who breaks first, but for a long moment, their laughter, breathless and helpless and _contagious_ , is the only noise in the flat.


End file.
